But Nobody Wants To Die

by David M George

  “I guess it’s time to tell you both what happened,” I said.

  “We’re all ears,” Dad said, smiling in an effort to give me some much needed moral support. I took a deep breath and began what I now thought of as my, ‘How I was such a dumbass speech.’ The monologue circulating through my brain ever since the beginning of ‘The Long March,’ in the desert.

  “We met at a costume party, Tommy who owns the gym where I work threw it at his house and invited all his employees. I was there about an hour or so when this guy dressed as a Power Ranger walks by. I asked him, ‘So how are things in Angel Grove these days?’ and we started talking, says he is in construction design and knows Tommy because he is thinking about remodeling the gym, so on and so forth. He drifts away and I don’t see him for a while.

  “Then about an hour later he comes back and says Tommy asked him to get a couple bags of ice to make more margaritas and would I like to come with him? He seemed nice enough, polite, great costume, etcetera, and as he’s a friend of Tommy’s and Tommy trusted him enough to do business with him I thought it was safe. But just to make sure I tell him I’d go with him only if he took his mask off to drive, in the interests of traffic safety and all.”

  Jamie shook her head from side to side, no doubt thinking that here I was flirting with a guy that wanted to kill me. I wanted to tell her that even I was not dumb enough to go anywhere alone with a guy I couldn’t pick out of a police line-up. Being a cop’s daughter has some advantages.

  Dad interrupted to ask so what did this guy look like and I gave him pretty much the same description I gave the cop at the hospital. Dad frowned, raising one eyebrow but said nothing, nodding for me to continue.

  “So he’s got this faded blue Volkswagen with big tires parked outside and we get in and he takes off his mask and turns out he’s good looking. So off we go, it’s dark and he’s telling me a pretty good story about a coked out girlfriend and I’m not really paying attention to where we’re going.

  I had just a couple sips of a margarita at the party and you know I don’t drink so maybe I’m a little buzzed but eventually I come to my senses and realize we’ve passed one Circle K too many with a perfectly good ice machine sitting out front.

  “I mention this to him and he’s like, oh sorry I didn’t see it, and gives me this I only have eyes for you crap, but when he whips by the last 7-11 on the edge of civilization I catch on and know something is not on the up and up. He senses I’m finally hip and puts the hammer down and now we’re flying and I figure the odds of me jumping out and surviving the impact are pretty slim.”

  I look up to see if I’ve lost my audience but they’re both still awake and it doesn’t look like they have any questions, at least not right now, so I try and hurriedly finish my embarrassing monologue.

  “After a couple more miles, he turns hard left, and we’re off-roading it, plowing through the desert like it’s the Baja 500, and I’m hanging on for dear life until I see my chance. Finally he slows down to circumvent a large tree and I think this may be my only opportunity and I bail.

  “I jump clear and manage to only pick up a few scratches and hit the ground running. It’s dark as hell and by the time he backtracks to where I jumped out I’m long gone. By the time he finds me I’ve got a good size rock and manage to sucker punch him and then try to fracture his skull with the rock. It must have evened things up just enough so he didn’t have the strength left to kill me.

  I figure he was hoping the desert sun would finish me off and he better get medical attention before he lost too much blood.”

  Jamie is not saying anything but her eyes are wet and the tear rolling down her cheek speaks volumes and I’m so grateful for her friendship. Dad is dry eyed, which is to be expected, but he’s shaking his head like this story is going to have a sadder ending than the one I just finished.

  “What is it Dad?” I manage to say without my voice cracking, Jamie’s display of affection finally starting to break through my resolve.

  “I think I know your boy,” is all he says, but it’s enough.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CARLOS TAKES THE PLUNGE

  C arlos showed up at the pool the next day after school. The swimmers, even the white ones, were as dark as or even darker than Carlos, but none of them were as dark as the coach. He was short and wiry and very fit, with a military style haircut and a white smear of zinc oxide running the length of his nose. He was dressed in red shorts and a Polo shirt with Las Vegas High School Swimming embroidered on the front. He carried a clipboard and wore a chrome whistle around his neck. The coach’s name was Bob Ford. He took Carlos aside.

  “Where you from?” he said.

  “Coalville, West Virginia.”

  “What brought you here to Las Vegas?”

  “My Uncle owns a bakery, I work there in the morning before school,” Carlos said.

  “You know how to swim?”

  “Every summer we used to swim at an abandoned quarry back in Coalville,” Carlos said.

  “The big guy, the one whose nose you broke yesterday afternoon. His parent’s called the school, and raised hell. They said you attacked their son without provocation, and they want to press assault charges, have you suspended.” Carlos said nothing.

  “I told the Principal that you didn’t start it. I said that you were coming out for the swim team and that I would be personally responsible for you for the rest of the year.” Carlos nodded.

  “The next time something happens, I expect you to walk away. You understand?” Carlos nodded again.

  “You’re in lane eight. Hundred meter freestyle repeats. Pair up with Jackson, take turns. Try not to drown.”

  Carlos didn’t drown. But it was clear he had a lot to learn about swimming. He soon realized that swimming could be the door, a portal to a better life, a chance to be on the inside instead of on the outside looking in.

  Coach Ford demanded a lot from his swimmers. But he gave a lot in return. He wanted them all to succeed at life, not just swimming, and he took a personal interest in each of them. Carlos, who never had a positive male role model growing up, wanted nothing more than to earn his respect. He vowed to get better, a lot better. He doubled the number of pushups and sit-ups he did every night, traded the Puerquitos for whey protein and started to fill out. He is the first one to practice and the last one to leave.

  In his junior year, Coach Ford tells him that his teammates would most likely elect him team captain if would open just his mouth once in a while. He suggests Carlos join the debate team to develop his speaking skills. After six months on the debate team, Carlos continues to lead by example, but when the situation arises, Carlos is no longer hesitant to offer encouragement to his fellow swimmers.

  Once, when Carlos rallied the troops during a close meet, he saw the Coach smile and nod in approval and afterwards, when Coach Ford put his arm around him and told him how proud he was of him, that one gesture is worth more to Carlos than the two individual state titles he won his senior year.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MOVING DAY

  “Y ou know who he is?” I asked Dad, incredulous.

  “I think so, it sounds like Tony Battaglia’s son, Mike, or Mikey as everyone calls him,” Dad said.

  “He matches your description, and he’s known for attending every Comic Con Convention within five-hundred miles of Las Vegas,” he said.

  “The rumor is he likes to dress in costume when he goes. They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, but in Mikey’s case the apple fell a couple miles away. In any event, if we even suspect there is a connection between what happened to you and the mob we got to get outta Dodge,” Dad said.

  I saw the look of concern on Jamie’s face as she figured it out.

  “You mean they won’t want any witnesses, right?” she said.

  “Bingo,” Dad said.

  Dad turned to look at me, “You’re the only one at the party that saw him without his mask?”

  I nodde
d. “I think so.”

  “Then you’re the only one that can send him to the not-so-friendly confines of the Southern Desert Correctional Center in Nevada where he can walk the yard with his old man and they can discuss the many shortcomings of the criminal justice system and complain about the prison food,” Dad said.

  “So where can we go?” I said.

  “I don’t know, but anyplace has got to be better than here. Who knows you’re still alive besides me, Jamie, Phoenix P.D. and the ER staff at St Joe’s?” Dad said.

  “Uh, well, I called Tommy, my boss, and all my Monday clients to let them know I wouldn’t be there today.”

  “So just the whole United States and the entire Pacific Rim, but not Communist China?” Dad said.

  “Yeah, but not Lithuania, Latvia and Estonia either. Damn, I wanted to get my car,” I said

  “Is it still at the party?” Dad said.

  “Yeah, parked right out front,” I said.

  “Anything valuable in it?” he said.

  “Do you mean besides my sunglasses, my phone, a few sticks of gum and my entire Tab Benoit CD collection? My purse is in the trunk, what woman wouldn’t miss her purse?” I said.

  Dad was giving me the look, the one I never wanted to get growing up.

  I felt I had to explain. “I locked it in the trunk before I went inside. I didn’t want to lug it around at the party.”

  “Oh no, I understand that part, I was giving you the evil eye because this means I’m the one paying for two weeks at Motel 6,” Dad said.

  “Motel 6? Wow, you’re the last of the big spenders Dad,” I said.

  “When my daughter’s safety is at stake, no expense is too great,” he said.

  I rolled my eyes for at least the twelfth time since Dad walked in the door, but he missed it. He was too busy asking Jamie if she wanted to join our little tea party.

  “After all, once they discover you’re her best friend, and most likely knows where she is, I’m sure they’ll want to ask you a few questions concerning her whereabouts. Of course, they may want to do the Mexican Hat Dance on your semi-conscious, half-naked body first, just to make sure you’re telling them the God’s honest truth,” he said.

  “Gee, I bet you could sell refrigerators to Eskimos. You’re extremely persuasive,” Jamie said.

  “It’s a gift, too bad I couldn’t have been born rich instead. But enough small talk,” Dad said.

  He nodded at me, “You better grab some clothes and your toothbrush; we’ve got to double time it out of here.”

  “I don’t want to leave,” I said, even though I knew it was pointless.

  “What, you’ll miss the ambiance? Don’t worry; the roaches will be just fine while you’re gone,” he said. I packed quickly, but not fast enough to please Dad.

  “Too slow, you people are too slow. If you’re this slow in combat you’re gonna be dead,” he said, looking at his watch. More Jack Webb from the movie, The D.I. The rolling of the eyes continued unabated.

  As we drove away, I thought I better try and convince Dad that we needed to go by Tommy’s house so I could get my purse. I didn’t need it like you need oxygen, but what woman can go more than 48 hours without her cell phone and that was the one thing I did need as badly as oxygen.

  “Dad, can we go get my purse? I’m going to need my cell phone and my I.D., and besides my last paycheck is in my purse and I would like to help out with expenses.”

  To say Dad was tight with a buck was not giving it the necessary emphasis. To say he was so tight he squeaked when he walked was probably closer to the mark. By saying I would help out with expenses I was hoping to hit a responsive chord.

  “What if they got your car staked out? What if they’re just waiting for you to make a rookie mistake like going back for your car?” he said.

  “We can take a quick look see first. Besides I don’t want the car, the car can stay there until the wheels fall off. I just want my purse and my cell phone,” I said. Dad was shaking his head no, but at least he didn’t say no out loud.

  “Turn right at the next light and get on the 10, eastbound and I’ll give you directions as we go,” I said

  “You damn civilians and your insatiable desire for unnecessary luxury items are jeopardizing the outcome of this mission,” he growled, as he made the turn.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said. Gee, just like old times, I thought. Only Dad would think a cell phone was a luxury item, but maybe with some luck I could get my phone and salvage my Tab Benoit CD’s. I badly wanted to tell Dad that I was not a civilian, thanks to being raised in a perennial boot camp from hell, but looking at his face in the rear view mirror I decided that it would be better if I kept that observation to myself.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  PHYLLOBATES TERRIBILIS

  T he brightly colored poison-dart frogs of the Amazon, Phyllobates Terribilis, are small but deadly and can kill on contact. They flaunt their toxicity through vivid day-glow markings known in the natural world as warning coloration. Not close to five feet tall even in stilettos, wrapped in her signature skin-tight, day-glow pink dress that accentuated every enticing curve, the woman known simply as Melinda D., cut a swath through the Las Vegas late night scene that included more than her fair share of cocaine induced late night trips to the ER, restraining orders and tear-stained divorce papers. Her M.O. was promise them anything but give them nothing until after a trip to the jewelry store. Her theme song was the wail of police sirens, and the word on the street was that the D. stood for Disaster.

  The goal of the poison-dart frogs in the rain forest is to deter attack by being noticed, but now Melinda D. no longer wanted to be noticed. She needed to hide. That someone wanted her dead was not much of a surprise.

  It seems that Tony’s son, Mikey, “the Moocher,” Battaglia had done the unthinkable. The mob knew Melinda D. as a ‘party girl,’ meaning she was often invited to the high-roller after-hours casino parties and passed around as one would share a platter of cannoli. Mikey had approached her at one of these parties after drinking what he hoped was just enough alcohol to summon the courage to ask a question but hopefully not enough to make an ass of himself.

  “Hello,” Mikey said. “I’ve been watching you. I’d really like to know more about you.”

  “Oh really, and what is it you want to know?” she said, her eyes direct and unflinching. Mikey returned her gaze, measure for measure, “I want to know something about you that no one else knows,” he said.

  “Do you mean the recurring nightmare that was my childhood? Maybe the state run foster homes, each one worse than the last?” she said, pausing to take a sip of her Manhattan, “or the emotional scars that force me to continue to choose men who will take advantage of me, mistreat me and finally abandon me?”

  “I’ll go with that last part,” Mikey said.

  “And why is that?” Melinda said.

  “Because I want to be the one that protects you, the one that makes you feel safe, the one,” Mikey said, “that breaks the mold.”

  “If only it was that easy,” Melinda said. Her eyes rose to meet his, “You good at numbers?”

  “Depends,” he said.

  “How about 1081, is that a number you could be good at?” She put her hand on his arm.

  “If it has anything to do with you, it’s a number I could be good at,” Mikey said. Her hand was as hot as the fourth of July.

  “Wildwood Apartments, off Madison,” she said. “Meet me in an hour.”

  “I’ll be there,” he said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  VISITING DAY

  W hen Tony’s top lieutenant, Louie Fagamo, broke the news to Tony on visitation day at the Southern Desert Correctional Center just north of Las Vegas, Tony was livid. That his son, Mikey had fallen hard for Melinda D, and wanted to make her a respectable woman was not the news Tony wanted to hear.

  Tony was well aware of Melinda D’s sordid reputation and knew she used the money she received “partying’ to bankr
oll her ever growing drug habit. That she somehow convinced his son that they should shack up, move to Hawaii and live happily ever after was aggravating the hell out of his ulcer. He reached for the roll of Tums Fagamo was perceptive enough to bring with him.

  “It gets worse,” Louie said.

  “What do you mean?” Tony said.

  “There’s a rumor that Big Ears ordered a hit on C. R. Johnson’s daughter,” Louie said.

  “What? The ex-cop? That makes no sense,” Tony said.

  “I tried to talk him out of it, but couldn’t get anywhere,” Louie said.

  “We don’t do that, we don’t kill cops, not even ex-cops, and we don’t involve family. He knows that he needs approval from The Commission before he orders a hit,” Tony said.

  Louie shoved the roll of Tums back across the table towards Tony. “You might as well keep them, and no, he didn’t ask permission, he just does whatever he wants,” Louie said.

  “He’s a loose cannon,” Tony said, putting the Tums in his pocket.

  “Not much we can do about it right now,” Fagamo said.

  “See what else you can find out and come back when you know more.”

  “Okay boss,” Fagamo reached to swat at a fly that seemed to like his aftershave lotion.

  The rest of the rumor was not only that Big Ears Alphonso had sent Tony’s son, Mikey to make the hit, but that he told Mikey that it was on his father, Tony’s orders. Fagamo didn’t know if the rest of the rumor was true and wanted to wait before he said anything. Besides, it was just more bad news that Tony didn’t need to hear right now.

  Tony and Louie spoke in low whispers for the remainder of the visit. Twenty minutes later Louie cleared the last gate and was walking towards his car in the parking lot. They had drawn cards to see which one of them broke the news to Tony. He was worried that maybe Tony would have a coronary and die right there in the prison visitation room before they could even call an ambulance. Maybe his luck was changing after all.